


a tied and empty hand

by mxmushroom



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Author is Nonbinary, Cis Mikaele Salesa, Dubious Consent, Fingering, Front Hole Sex, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Praise, Set in Episodes 180-181 | Upton Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Size Difference, Size Kink, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Upton House (The Magnus Archives), overstim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29747190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxmushroom/pseuds/mxmushroom
Summary: Martin arrives at Upton House in need of rest and relaxation. Enamored with the latest beautiful thing to find its way into his capable hands, Mikaele Salesa knows just how to give it to him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Mikaele Salesa
Comments: 3
Kudos: 52





	a tied and empty hand

**Author's Note:**

> title from unfucktheworld by angel olsen  
> terms used for martin's bits: cock, entrance, slit  
> this fic includes front hole sex w/ martin bottoming  
> martin deserves to be manhandled, personally, i think  
> the one and ONLY time you'll find me advocating for Sub/Bottom Martin

Jon’s still sleeping deeply, eyes open and still disturbingly penetrating, when Martin wakes and emerges nervously from their shared bedroom. Upton House is larger than he’d had time to realize before collapsing with exhaustion; the hallways are long and dim with cavernous ceilings and mirrors and portraits dotting the oak walls. His feet make soft sounds as he pads along the deep green carpet. Of course, he thinks to himself, Salesa would wind up in a mansion like this. From what he knew from the statements mentioning the man, he was wealthy, influential... and, Martin thinks with a sick feeling, the old owner wouldn’t be using the building anymore. 

It’s suspiciously quiet, and Martin finds himself wondering what time it is.

“Hello?” The cry echoes, but he hears nothing. A cobweb in a corner catches his eye, and he tries to ignore it. 

At the end of the hallway, one of the doors is ajar, a sliver of light emerging from the room behind it. Holding his breath and praying that it doesn’t creak, Martin nudges it open and peers inside. 

Bathroom doesn’t feel like a fancy enough word to describe the room before his eyes. The white-tiled floors glisten, meticulously polished; the mirror is gold-framed, and candles are flickering on the vanity, the windowpane, and on the sides of a deep, claw-foot bathtub filled to the brim with water and purplish bubbles that smell of lavender and sage. The air is thick with steam and despite his anxiety at roaming the house apparently unnoticed and unbothered, Martin finds himself remembering just how long it’s been since he bathed. 

It’s like it’s waiting for me, he rationalizes. 

Unless Salesa is in the habit of running hot, luxurious baths for himself and then abandoning them? 

Before he can talk himself out of it, Martin slips inside and closes the heavy door behind him with a latch that’s loud in the quiet, still air. He’s shedding what he’s come to think of as his apocalypse uniform in a second: the jean jacket stained with mud, the worn corduroy trousers, the dark grey t-shirt whose smell he doesn’t want to think about. 

Naked, the air is colder than he expected; he shivers, his nipples stiffen. He catches sight of himself in the mirror and almost doesn’t recognize the person before him. His hair is long, unkempt, its reddish curls tangled down almost to his shoulders. The scars on his chest are silvery in the flickering, inconsistent light; his eyes look tired, bags etched underneath them as though in dark purple ink. 

“Hellish fearscape doesn’t make for good skincare,” he mutters, thinking nostalgically on the jojoba oil and retinol that he’d prized so highly in what he was starting to think of as the “before time.” He’d always had a young-looking face, and damn if he wasn’t going to keep it that way. 

He nips his vanity in the bud as the bath beckons him with its sweet, floral scent. As he lowers himself into the hot, steaming water, he feels every muscle in his legs relax at once. It’s almost painful, but then it’s blissful, the heat working its way into his skin, then his tired bones. It feels hot enough to scald him and he can feel the bright red flush creeping up his chest and across his face. It’s heaven. He lets himself slip lower, lower, his hair floating out in billows beside his cheeks before he lets his face slide under the water, eyes closed. 

Without really thinking, he lets a hand slip between his legs. How long has it been? His cock is half-hard, sensitive; he suspects if he wasn’t already submerged in water, he’d find wetness there, too. 

Everything is quiet, muffled, which is why he gasps when he finds himself above water again, having not heard the door open. He feels the presence behind him before he really sees it or understands it, and all at once he’s hot with shame, intensely aware of his nakedness, the tingling between his soft thighs. Before he can say anything, he hears a thickly accented voice, a smooth bass that, despite his anxiousness, or perhaps because of it, prickles the hairs on the back of Martin’s neck, piques his interest. 

“Ahh, Mr. Blackwood.” 

“Um, sorry, I… occupied? Sorry!” His voice breaks and he wants to swear, humiliated. 

Salesa chuckles. The shadow he casts shifts as he moves closer, and Martin can feel his heart beating more quickly, his breath growing shallow as Mikaele comes into view. 

He looms over Martin; he must be at least six and a half feet tall, and he’s _big_ , broad-chested, with rounded biceps that look like they might be carved from stone, not flesh. Under his intense brown eyes, Martin feels the blush on his cheeks growing more intense, his throat tightening, the ache in his cock making him shift so his thighs press together under the water. The surface ripples, sending soapy water over the side of the tub, onto the floor. 

Salesa’s undressed, fully exposed, from the cheeky grin on his bearded face to the tattoos across his torso, to the muscular lines of his quads. Martin finds himself imagining what Salesa’s ass might look like, but he pushes the thought from his mind, swallowing. After all, there are more captivating things to grab his attention: Salesa’s hard, rock hard, his cock curving upwards deliciously, head exposed. Has he been touching himself? Has he been watching Martin? Has he _known_? Martin feels his mouth watering and bites his lip, unsure what to say. 

“I’ve heard so much about you.” Salesa doesn’t offer any other explanation as he climbs into the tub across from Martin. The fact that the two large men can fit inside speaks to the sheer, impractical opulence of the thing, but Martin can’t dwell on that for long, because despite its size, the walls of the tub force their bodies to touch, and he feels Salesa’s firm thigh against his own. They’re facing one another now. Salesa’s taller than Martin, his chest not fully subsumed by the hot, steaming water. 

Martin chuckles, a forced, strangled sound. “All good things, I hope.” He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. His head feels fuzzy from the heat and the rapidly growing desire he’s trying and failing to fight off. Jon, he thinks briefly, but the thought dissolves when Salesa says his name. 

“Can I call you Martin?” 

“Um. Yes.” 

“Thank you. Martin.” 

Martin just smiles, a small thing that dimples his left cheek. Salesa looks at him softly and hungrily. He reaches forward with one hand to take one of Martin’s curls between two thick fingers. “I don’t have visitors often,” he murmurs. “Let alone such pretty ones as you.” 

Martin’s a little embarrassed at the noise he makes, but Salesa smiles and whispers, “Adorable.” He feels himself shifting forwards, towards the other man. His charisma is like gravity, Martin is consumed by the need to touch him, to be touched by him. The richness of his voice pulls him in more deeply. “Do you like it?”

“What, this?” Martin’s shocked, despite his earlier suspicions that the entire scene had been waiting for him, somehow. 

“I so hoped you would.” Salesa’s voice drips with affection. It’s intoxicating. “I wanted you to have a chance to relax.” 

He’s so gentle as he touches Martin that it takes a moment for him to notice Salesa moving him, turning him so that his back is pressed against Salesa’s chest, his head resting in the crook between his neck and shoulder, the hard, hot bulge of his cock pressed against Martin’s ass. Martin lets out a shaky, meticulously controlled breath. “You did this for me?” 

Salesa’s hand brushes one of Martin’s nipples and creeps down over his stomach. Martin shifts his hips, not finding the friction he’s craving, and moans so quietly he can almost convince himself he’s managed to keep quiet until Salesa laughs lightly. “I like to take care of beautiful things.” His voice is quiet, almost indecipherable, but the heat of his breath tickles Martin’s ears. “I like to treat them how they deserve.” 

“What… what about Jon?” Martin feels a twinge of guilt in his gut, but Salesa plants a light kiss on top of his head and he sighs, letting it fade. 

“You’ve had a long, difficult journey.” They have.

“You deserve to relax.” He does. Doesn’t he?

“I could help you.” Martin’s certain of that.

“Don’t you want to feel good, pet?” He doesn’t let Martin answer.

Instead, his other hand eases Martin’s mouth open, two fingers filling the hole as Martin sucks at them instinctively, desperately, a keen of pleasure escaping him as he does so. He’s so fixated on the delicious feeling of Salesa filling his mouth that he’s surprised at a sudden friction over his cock as Salesa takes it between two fingers, their roughness enticing. Martin ruts his hips up. 

“Relax,” Salesa breathes. 

“Hmm.” Martin sighs. “I’m… getting there.” 

“Are you?” Salesa teases Martin’s entrance, running a single finger along it slowly, like a question. 

“That’s good,” Martin whispers in response, and the finger works its way inside, fucking up casually into him. Martin lets out a cry. “ _Fuck_.” 

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” 

“Mmm.” 

“Oh, don’t tell me I’ve already fucked the words out of you, Martin Blackwood.” The amusement, patronizing on Salesa’s tongue, sends an electric shock over Martin’s skin as he unravels under the other man’s touch. He is _decidedly_ not used to this, preferring to be in control, the one who teases and prods and ekes pleasure from his partners with expert touches. But he melts for Salesa now, his fear evaporating in the hot, damp air as pleasure builds and he grinds his hips in time with the motion of Salesa’s hand. His palm grinds against Martin’s cock and Martin whimpers. 

“Hmm. Mmm. F-fuck. Mm.” 

“Use your words. Come on.” The chiding is kind, but firm. 

“I’m… close.” As soon as he says it, he realizes it’s a lie, and he’s orgasming around Salesa’s hand, letting himself be guided over the edge and through the waves of pleasure with gentle, coaxing friction. Martin almost purrs when it’s over, shifting his hips up one last time in satisfaction, but Salesa doesn’t move to stop, instead sliding a second finger inside and nipping at Martin’s ear. 

“You’re even lovelier than I imagined,” he says, pleased with himself. Martin whimpers at the overstimulation of Salesa’s persistent touch. “Too much?” 

It is, but it’s delicious, so Martin shakes his head, his whole body starting to quiver. He’s too aware of Salesa’s cock pressed against him, bigger than anything he’s ever taken before, and he’s possessed by the thought of being filled with it. 

As though reading his mind, Salesa mutters, “Let me fuck you properly.” 

Martin isn’t a small man. Over six feet tall and heavier than most, he’s never had a partner attempt to lift him before. Even less has he had someone hoist him up so he can latch his legs around their waist while they work their tongue into his mouth, grinding desperately against them, held up by their hands under his ass. But Salesa carries him effortlessly, not bothering to drain the bath or even blow out the candles. Any concerns over fire hazards Martin might have entertained are banished as Salesa manages, somehow, to continue kissing him, harder and more insistently, as he carries him down the hallway and into what Martin presumes must be his bedroom. He shivers as Salesa sets him down on the bed, the water droplets on his skin going cold. But it doesn’t last long; Salesa’s on top of him in an instant, his body hot and hard, and Martin ruts up, searching for Salesa’s cock, whimpering for it, “fuck me. Fuck me.” 

“Desperate little thing.” 

Martin nods. He can feel himself pouting and doesn’t try to stop it. 

“Let me taste that pretty little cock of yours first, love,” Salesa teases, bending down so his face is between Martin’s legs. His tongue traces his way up along Martin’s slit and circles his cock, hard and aching. He sucks, just slightly, working another moan from deep in Martin’s chest. Martin grabs at the sheets, his mind foggy with the raw sensitivity he feels building between his legs; he feels himself grinding up against Salesa’s tongue, face-fucking him, feels himself babbling, “yes, yes, yes,” and lets out a long, tortured breath as he releases for a second time, his jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut as his mind goes blank and his body is overcome with a rush of pleasure more intense than the first. 

Salesa is relentless. Martin whines as he moves his face away, wiping the dampness from it on the back of his hand, letting his fingers continue easing Martin open, readying him. He’s sopping wet, now, and knows he must look a complete mess, hair a tangled rat’s nest, body slick with sweat and bathwater and his thighs sticky with desire and desperation, but Salesa looks at him with the unmistakable intensity of burning lust and he feels his insecurity dropping away. 

He grasps Mikaele’s cock as the other man positions himself against his entrance. Even the pressure of its head, slick with pre-cum, is enough to elicit a whine, as fucked-out and sensitive as Martin is after two orgasms in such quick succession. Salesa is considerate, sliding in slowly at first, stretching Martin open and sighing as he takes his full length readily. Martin lets out a quick breath, a groan as he’s filled up. He shifts his hips against Salesa, needy, still. Salesa caresses his face, stroking his cheek, his chin with tenderness. He plants a single, soft kiss on Martin’s mouth, wetly, and another on his throat, before settling a hand around Martin’s neck and pressing against it. 

Martin moans. He can still breathe enough to whisper, “Fuck,” and Salesa apparently takes this as instruction, snapping his hips forward decisively and groaning in pleasure as he does so. 

“You feel wonderful.” His praise is punctuated by fast, hard breath. Every thrust makes Martin whimper as the friction of Salesa’s fucking teases his sensitive, overworked cock, swollen and pink. “Pretty thing. Sweet, pretty little thing. You’re doing so well for me, love.” Martin’s lightheaded, whether from the hand around his neck, the rhythmic thrusts quickly working him towards a third climax he’s sure will be as painful as it will be blissful, or the heat causing sweat to shine on his forehead, he isn’t sure. He’s still, pinned down beneath Salesa, and he’s humiliated and delighted by just how _used_ he feels, how he’s a toy in Salesa’s hands, fucked open and ready and useless with hazy, intoxicating pleasure. It’s this feeling, his own helplessness as Salesa takes his pleasure from him, that pushes Martin into cumming again around the cock thrusting into him, and he feels a heat rush into him and moans, thrusting upwards long after the throbbing pleasure fades, unwilling to let Salesa pull away. 

When he finally does, he’s grinning, straight white teeth glinting in the dim light. He kisses Martin’s soft stomach, each of his nipples, his lips, as he mutters, “you were beautiful, darling.” Martin purrs, turns his head to the size to nuzzle into the pillows and soft sheets that welcome him. He’s exhausted now, fucked open and still sensitive, leaking Salesa’s seed onto the blankets. He knows he should move, knows he should see if Jon’s awake--God, _Jon_ \--and clean himself up, but he’s loathe to stir, feeling the tendrils of sleep beginning to overtake him. 

The soft brush of a kiss on his inner thigh brings him back to reality, and he finds Salesa between his legs with a tissue, cleaning him with gentle, tender touches. Martin still moans at them, sharp bolts of sensitivity shooting through his skin, but he smiles, too, and doesn’t shy away from Salesa’s touch. He lets himself be moved so that his body is under the blankets, instead of atop them, and he feels himself growing heavy as Salesa runs his fingers through his long, mussed-up hair, kisses his neck, his earlobe, his shoulders. 

“Get some rest,” Salesa murmurs. “You’ll need it.” 

Martin means to speak, but before he can, he’s drifting off, away, back into the first undisturbed sleep he can remember in months.


End file.
